bokuto gets yelled at quite a lot in your household. he gets yelled at for putting the fancy china in the dishwasher when he’s not supposed to, forgetting to separate the laundry and dying all of your clothes an ugly washed out red, and leaving puddles all over the bathroom floor because he steps out of the shower without drying off first and never puts the bath mat down.
one afternoon, your daughter is sitting at the table drawing, legs dangling from the chair, scribbling with colorful crayons on paper and drinking juice from her princess sippy cup. you take a seat next to her to ask her a question.
“baby, what’s mommy’s name?”
she puts down her coloring utensils and says cheerfully, with a smile as wide and bright as her father’s, “mommy!”
“and how about daddy’s name?”
without a single second of hesitation she takes a deep breath to prepare herself and yells so loud you feel the house shake, “KOOOUUUTAAAROOOUUU!”
you laugh at the way she furrows her brows and juts out her bottom lip the same way you do when you’re frustrated at your husband’s antics.
“i guess mommy does yell at daddy at lot, huh?”
she nods and gives that look that tells you, yeah right, we know. “yup. because daddy always does silly stuff!” she giggles at the thought.
you giggle back in agreement. “he does, doesn’t he?”
you hear loud footsteps pad down the hardwood floor in the hallway, and bokuto’s head pops out from the corner.
“sweetheart, did you call my name?”
you and your daughter just laugh. like mother, like daughter.
a/n: i think im gonna start writing again, slowly at least so i dont get burnout like i did last time i was in here. im probably never gonna finish my summer event i started before i fell of the face of the earth so sorry to everyone who requested and never got anything tysm for your support nonetheless </3 anyways ok pls take this i thought it was cute 👍
cw: est. relationship, suggestive, men who yearn, physical affection, PDA, gifts, kissing mentioned, high effort boyfriend, & not proofread
ⓘ Featuring 𝓑𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝓑𝐎𝐊𝐔𝐓𝐎 𝓚𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎
boyfriend!bokuto is a die-hard romantic, even though his primary love language is physical touch, he never fails to express his love in new sweet ways.
Buying you small trinkets from everywhere he visits, small sketches on napkins whenever you head into American buffets, & the sweetest of all, he writes love letters whenever he misses you.
boyfriend!bokuto loves showing you affection—after a long practice, he'll come home, wrap his muscular arms around your waist & start pressing kisses to your shoulder between telling you about his day.
Bonus dopamine hit when you let him rest his head on your stomach & scratch his scalp before bed.
boyfriend!bokuto is always so ecstatic after a win; he runs to find you just so he can pull you into his embrace & kiss you.
It's always so cute; the footage of him rushing to you, radiating so much joy & love always goes a little viral.
boyfriend!bokuto always misses you when you can't make it to one of his games, & after a win without you there, all his teammates get to hear how, the moment he gets back to his motel room, he's calling you to celebrate.
He'll stay on the line with you till his words are slurring and you ensure him it's okay to goto bed & you'd see him in a few days.
boyfriend!bokuto likes to shower with you, shampooing your hair, letting you put a hair mask in his hair & massage at his scalp, washing each other's backs, sharing quick kisses, & the peacefulness of the rushing water.
Every time he showers with you, he always helps with your haircare routine & finds your robe for you.
boyfriend!bokuto keeps everything you've ever given him—there's a box on his dresser filled with every love letter, polaroid, trinket, stickers, even one of your perfumes you gave him, nestled comfortably in there.
boyfriend!bokuto bought the prettiest matching promise rings within a few months of dating. He knows the saying "when you know, you know," and mid-date, it hit him, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.
He went out & bought them right after dropping you off at your apartment & now proudly wears it around, only taking it off in matches.
boyfriend!bokuto is always making sure to be the best boyfriend he can be for you !
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. fluff, established relationship, post timeskip duh kids ages range in 1-6 at max, characters included: iwaizumi, oikawa, kuroo, atsumu, osamu, sakusa, kageyama, hinata, ushijima, bokuto
iwaizumi subconsciously rubs his thumb on your son's back when he taps his chest, asking for his lion plushie that your husband had forgotten, stuck in the bag you had brought whenever it was a day you'd go out with your son.
"and i would like to thank my-" - "papa!" the smaller version of himself basically pulling at his tie while he tries to answer properly. he'd stay perfectly in control though, just to set the scene.
he just tickles the little guy until he stops fussing, at least until he finishes the question. "god, the little man is incredibly eager today, aren't you?" the athlete walks over to your on the sides, escorted by a few bodyguards as you take the hazelnut-headed baby from his arms.
oikawa happily introduces both him and his little girl before answering a few questions. whether those questions are about his gameplay or hi personal life, he answers whatever he can. what people find most adorable is how identical the grin on his daughter face was to his own.
"ah, my spouse? they're actually sitting over there- no i'm not going to point so no one crowds them." the same enthusiasm you fell in love with made you sigh while a few of his teammates stand nearby to bodyguard you in a way.
"dada! wanna say hi to mama/papa!" - "go wave, sweetie, they're right there!"
kuroo has his carbon copy sat on his lap, the little boy having hidden his face for a while in his father's vest, you questioned if it was really a good time to show the world he had a child- well, that's before you knew that crow jr. was just fast asleep.
"ah you know kids, they sleep easy, a luxury i wish i could still have." - "da... i wan' mama/papa..." tugging at the hem of his clothes, you could feel your heart warm when the microphone picked up your son's words.
"we can go to 'em later, okay?" - "huuungry..."
atsumu was getting interviewed right after a game, getting caught offguard, he didn't have time to put his girls down. the older girl being two years more than the smaller girl, one stood and one sat respectively. at least that's the stance he took after tossing them both into the air at least thrice.
"ha? oh! ohohohoh- yeah, these are my kids! just the prettiest in the whole world, aren't they?" placing a kiss on both of their heads, "clearly they take after their mother/father, yeah?"
you could only feel your face heat up hours later when you're rewatching the interview for yourself. "what're ya blushin' 'bout?? was tellin' them the truth!"
osamu gladly introduced the twins you had blessed him with, the two boys that were finally revealed at onigiri miya; helping their father out with work and serving customers with the smile osamu only offered to the love of his life, you.
"mmhhmm, yeah, my boys are amazin' at everythin', aren't they? learned from the best, and look like the best. me and their mother/father respectively."
"'samu, you were so sweet up there but you know damn well they learned how to help you because i pushed them to?" - "yeah yeah. don't take all the credit, beautiful."
sakusa keeps his distance by himself, and it only worsens when his little girl is in the vicinity of cameras, and lights when he finally gets out the locker room post-game. despite the eyerolls and such, he really isn't gonna be a man above flexing about how pretty his little girl is.
"of course she is my daughter, beautiful and much more bearable than you all." is all he really gets out before leaving the limelight to go back to where the two of you were.
"wow, really wouldn't give them a chance?" you smoothly slid a smoothie into his freehand for him and the young lady to share; said little lady already reaching out for the shaved flavored ice. "god, you really want people to know about our life or what?" - "was just joking, 'omi!"
kageyama is... well both him and his barely one year old toddler didn't like the amount of questions being asked, and yearned only for one thing left; to go back to the arms of mama/papa...
"i- yes, she is my daught- no she hasn't been enrol... i..." the little girl looks up at him and blinks anticipatedly, as if telepathically communicatin with her father, she starts to fake a loud cry that successfully gets him out of the spotlight.
"aw is my baby- oh, she's already okay? i thought she was crying?" - "oh you know things babe, i'm just a great dad." he places a kiss onto the little girl's head that makes her babble happily.
hinata, one moment was tossing her up into the air, next thing five journalists and three cameramen are already in his face, asking whose child is it... well, they had the same orange hair... who else's kid would this be?
"uh, yeah, she's my kid. she, and my beautiful partner are my inspiration during matches yes." - "dada! i want hooome!!"
he reluctantly answered only the questions that concerned the games for the next five minutes before coming back to you. "jeez, so many interviewers, huh?" - "okay, mr. popular, our daughter seems hungry."
ushijima is on stage, mic and everything as per usual, but this time the cameras weren't really focused too much on him, rather on the little girl that grasped his jacket's collar with amazement. whispering little words that the mic would pick up, people couldn't help but 'aww' at her!
"yes, the match was very beneficial for the growth of our team." - "ba... pa... papa..." would echo silently right behind the athelete's firm words, he probably couldn't see it, but you could easily spot how easily the crowd faltered at the hands of your daughter.
holding your son's hand, you walk over to your husband as he comes back, "seems like someone's talkative tonight." - "i believe so, our daughter likes the press."
bokuto was pulled onto a stage to talk about his most recent match and how his fake spike came up as an option in his mind. be surprised but i believe he'd be the kind to answer while catering to his daughter. sitting on his lap while he had a large hand around her small body.
"yes! that spike- god it just, you should know... sweetheart, don't eat that; the adrenaline an athlete experiences during a match makes your brain work overtime! and- baby, you know your mother/father is gonna kill me for this-"
long story short he's kinda got it under his control until he realizes 'yooo im a good dad while answering questions professionally'.
You just stepped into the shower when you heard the bathroom door open and watched in confusion as your husband carried a kitchen chair inside.
"Hi.", you said tentatively.
"Hi back."
"Uhm, babe, I love you, but… what are you doing?"
"You wanted me to catch you up on everything, so that's what I'm gonna do."
You had just returned from a business trip about 10 minutes ago and everything you wanted to do was have a nice hot shower, then snuggle up to your husband and enjoy the weekend by not moving an inch. But you figured, when you asked him to tell you about his day, he'd… wait until you were on the couch together.
"I-", your frown turned into an incredulous chuckle, "You know what? Okay. Hit me."
You turned on the water as he got comfortable, reaching into a bag of snacks he had brought - not without running appreciative eyes over the soft round body he had been deprived of for a whole week.
"As I was saying, there I was. In the produce aisle, trying to decide between cherry and heirloom tomatoes. I know we always get both but-"
Bokuto, your big beefy hunk of a man, who has severe “big dog who thinks they’re a lapdog” syndrome.
The second he’s home, he’s flopping down on you like he’s light as a feather (he’s not).
Cuddle session? Oh you mean being smothered until you’re actually shoving a pouting Bo off of you because you literally cannot breathe but he’s just like “oh so you hate me and want me DEAD?” ?
Don’t forget the struggle of trying to free yourself when he’s napping on you, big body draped over yours (you eventually just give up)
He also, unironically, loves being little spoon. What can he say? He’s just a big teddy bear!
You’d never slept over before. Not for lack of trying—he’s invited you a few times now, usually in that whirlwind, fast-talking, Bokuto way: “You should stay! I’ll make popcorn! We can watch that terrible space movie you love—wait, not terrible, just… objectively confusing!”
And eventually, you said yes. You’re newly dating, still figuring each other out. Still brushing pinkies under the table, pretending not to smile when he calls you his favorite distraction, and marveling at how easily he can light up a room. Last night was nice. Messy and real. He made you laugh so hard you snorted water out of your nose. You fell asleep curled around his arm, warm and stupidly happy.
You wake up expecting him to be gone. You’ve heard the stories—how Bokuto’s up with the sun, always the first at the gym, how he “accidentally” does 200 push-ups before breakfast because he couldn’t sit still. So when you stir around 9:47 a.m. and find him still beside you, wrapped in blankets and very much not at the gym, you blink in quiet confusion.
And when you try to sit up?
He groans. Loud and pitiful. Then immediately rolls toward you, snaking an arm around your waist, and slumps half his weight on top of you. “Don’t,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep.
“…Don’t what?” you whisper.
His face is in your neck, voice muffled and petulant. “Don’t leave. Too early.”
You laugh under your breath. “It’s basically ten.”
“I’m not emotionally ready for ten.”
You freeze a little, startled by how different this is from what you imagined. No bouncing. No bright energy. No dramatic grin. Just a sleepy man-child melting into you like the mattress is quicksand.
“Aren’t… you a morning person?” you say cautiously.
He groans again. “I am,” he mumbles, “just not when you’re here. You ruin everything.”
"Wow. Thanks."
“No, I mean… you’re warm. And you smell good. And your shoulder’s soft. And the bed feels better with you in it. So now I’m clingy and helpless. Congrats.”
You turn your head, just enough to glimpse his expression—eyes closed, brows drawn, nose scrunched into your skin as if he’s memorizing it.
“I was gonna make coffee,” you murmur.
“Betrayal.”
“You didn’t seem like the clingy type,” you tease, trying (and failing) to pry yourself from his arms.
He only holds you tighter, tugging you closer until your back is flush to his chest. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, lips brushing your collarbone. “You weren’t supposed to find out on the first sleepover.”
You go still. It’s the first sleepover. This was supposed to be casual, a night of snacks and movie reruns while trying not to overthink anything. But this? You weren’t prepared for this.
You clear your throat, flustered. “I could… come back after coffee?”
“No."
You laugh, helpless. “Koutarou—”
He silences you with a gentle touch, turning you toward him until there’s barely any space left between you. His voice is soft now—quieter than before, careful. “Just five more minutes.”
Then he kisses you. Soft and slow, not wanting to startle you. But when you don’t pull away—when your breath catches and your fingers curl instinctively into his shirt—he deepens it. His hand finds the small of your back, drawing you in, needing you closer. There’s no such thing as close enough. He’s still half-asleep, but he’s fully sure of this—of you.
When his lips leave yours, he says nothing. He just buries his face in your stomach and wraps his arms around your waist.
You lie there, stunned—lips tingling, the warmth of the kiss still clinging to your skin. Your fingers find his hair, brushing through the tangled, sleep-ruined strands without thinking. His breathing slows. His weight settles against you, easing something deep in your chest.
And even though your brain is buzzing and your heart is screaming, this is really happening—you somehow manage a soft response. “…Okay. Five more minutes.”
Bokutō Kōtarō teaching your daughter how to say “Hey Hey Hey” —fluff
“C’mon, baby, I know you can do it! Say: Hey. Hey. Hey.”
Your babygirl grins widely, looking incredibly cute in her Hello Kitty Onesie. “H…H!! He!”
You giggle, gently tickling her sides, making her squirm on your lap. Your Husband shakes his head slowly, “No, no. It’s: Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Your daughter laughs loudly and slaps Bokuto with her tiny hand. “Dada! Da-Da!!” You gently tangle your fingers in her black and white Hair, making her look up to you, “Ma-Ma-Ma!!” Her little toddler fingers grab your hand, being completely distracted by them.
Bokuto’s hair falls down and he pouts softly, “Cmon, I believe in you.” He taps his pointer finger against your Daughter’s shoulder, trying to get her attention back. “Just say Daddy’s Catchphrase: Hey! Hey! Heyy!”
He tries to make her say it for thirty more minutes, failing miserably.
Later that Day, you’re all watching ‘Bluey’ together as your Daughter randomly shouts, “Hey! Hey! Heeey!”
You gasp loudly and Bokuto jumps up immediately, just to drop on his knees dramatically, “She said it!! She actually said it! I’m the happiest man alive!”
You giggle so hard, your belly hurts and your daughter just looks confused from one parent to the other.
。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
a/n: English isn’t my first language, criticism is welcomed but please be nice. Likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! Do not steal or copy my work.
n: I’m having baby fever and need to be Bokuto’s wife so bad // divider by @cursed-carmine
kōtarō, your boyfriend, is stuck to you like a very supportive glue.
wc: 1.7k, req, reader has ADHD
the laws of physics dictate that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time, but bokuto has spent the last three hours trying to disprove isaac newton by melting directly into your left shoulder.
he’s a structural hazard. a giant, golden-eyed menace who has abandoned all concept of personal boundaries in favor of becoming a human backpack. his chin is anchored so firmly into the crook of your neck that every time he inhales, you can feel the rumble of his existence radiating straight into your collarbone.
“look at the green one,” he whispers. his voice is a gravelly, low-frequency vibration that hits you more like a physical impact than a sound. “it’s vibrating. the little bug. look at it go, star. it’s doing a little dance.”
you look down at your open textbook. there is no green bug. there is, however, a neon-green highlighter streak that you accidentally dragged across a three-paragraph explanation of macroeconomic theory when a motorcycle drove past the window twenty minutes ago. your brain had immediately boarded that motorcycle, driven to the beach, opened a small smoothie shack, and retired. you’re currently staring at the page, but your consciousness is trapped in the metaphorical blender of that smoothie shack.
“that’s a line, kō,” you murmur, your voice drifting off as your gaze wanders to the corner of the desk where a stray paperclip is catching the afternoon light. it looks shiny. like a tiny silver trombone.
“it’s a majestic line,” bokuto corrects instantly, entirely deadpan, his massive arms tightening around your waist like a pair of high-grade ratchet straps. “the best line i’ve ever seen in my life. write another one. do the pink one next. please?”
he’s so deep in the trenches of affection that it’s honestly becoming a public safety concern. if you told him to flip the desk over because the wood grain looked at you funny, he would have it airborne before you could blink. he loves you so much; he attends the church of your existence every single second of the day, acting as the self-appointed high priest of making sure you never experience a single moment without a hundred and ninety pounds of muscular volleyball captain attached to your torso.
your fingers start up a rhythm against his forearm—tap, tap, taptap, tap. your index and middle fingers bounce against his skin, mapping out the precise cadence of a song you can’t remember the name of, but your brain demands it be played on the instrument of his biceps.
bokuto freezes. his entire body goes rigid, eyes widening until they look like two poached eggs as he tracks the movement of your fingers. to anyone else, a partner absentmindedly drumming on their arm is a normal, everyday occurrence. to bokuto, this is a direct transmission from the heavens. it’s an honor. it’s a holy ritual.
“you’re doing the drum solo,” he breathes, his chest expanding against your back like a rapidly inflating bouncy castle. “the skin-drum. i’m the drum. this is the greatest day of my week.”
“it’s tuesday,” you point out, your eyes tracking a dust mote that is currently executing a flawless pirouette in the sunbeam near the bookshelf.
“exactly! a historic tuesday!” he buries his face directly into the fabric of your oversized sweater, making a muffled, needy noise that sounds suspiciously like a vacuum cleaner trying to swallow a sock. “do it harder. play the whole album. do the one with the fast beat.”
you don’t even realize you’ve shifted your focus from the dust mote to the texture of his sweatpants until your hand is sliding down to pat his knee in a rhythmic, three-beat loop. your brain is a pinball machine, the silver ball bouncing wildly off bumpers of thoughts you can’t quite catch, but the physical sensation of tapping against him keeps you anchored to the floor so you don’t float away entirely.
he’s the perfect canvas for it. he’s warm—permanently radiating heat like a freshly toasted bagel—and he doesn’t move away. he never tells you to sit still. instead, he treats your lack of focus like a rare, beautiful weather event that he is incredibly lucky to witness.
“hey,” he says, his voice dropping into that weirdly soft, desperate tone he only uses when he’s looking at you like you invented the concept of oxygen. “look at me for a second. just a tiny bit.”
you turn your head, your chin immediately bumping into his nose because he is still hovering approximately zero millimeters from your face. his golden eyes are completely blown out, practically sparkling with a level of adoration that should require a permit.
“you’re so pretty it’s making my teeth hurt,” he complains, his bottom lip turning out into a pout so dramatic it belongs in a museum. “how are you doing that? you’re just sitting there. you’re not even trying. you’re just breathing and my brain is short-circuiting. look at my hands, they’re shaking. you did that.”
they aren’t actually shaking, but he holds them up anyway, his massive, taped fingers twitching slightly for effect. you let out a soft huff of a laugh, your fingers instantly migrating from his knee to his wrist, resuming the rhythmic tap-tap-tap against his pulse point.
“i’m supposed to be studying,” you say, though the textbook has long since lost all meaning. the words are just black shapes on white paper now, looking less like economics and more like a colony of very organized ants.
“studying is fake,” bokuto declares with absolute, unearned authority. “who needs graphs when we have this? look at this symmetry. we fit together like two lego bricks. the expensive ones. the ones that lock in so hard you need to use your teeth to get them apart.”
the comparison is so violently specific that you can’t help the giggle that bubbles up from your chest. it’s a small, sudden sound, but the reaction it provokes from bokuto is instantaneous. he lets out a high-pitched, strangled noise—the kind of sound a golden retriever makes when it sees a tennis ball drop into a lake—and violently nuzzles the side of your face until your hair is a static-charged nest.
“do that again,” he begs, his nose dragging across your cheekbone. “the laugh. do the little squeak. please. i’ll give you my shoes. i’ll give you my favorite knee pads. the ones with the good padding.”
“i don’t want your sweaty knee pads, kō.”
“i’ll wash them! i’ll wash them with the flowery soap that smells like the pink trees! just laugh again!”
he’s so utterly helpless against you, so entirely unreveled by the mere fact that you exist in his general vicinity, that it’s almost comical. he watches your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact placement of every single eyelash, his chest heaving with a sigh that is so full of devotion it threatens to blow the papers off the desk.
your attention drifts again, caught by the way his silver-and-black hair sticks up in those ridiculous spikes. without thinking, your hand leaves his wrist and wanders upward, your fingers tangling into the soft, surprisingly malleable strands at the back of his neck. you start twirling a piece around your finger, pulling it slightly, then letting it snap back into place.
snap. snap. snap.
bokuto melts. there is no other word for it. the muscular, terrifying ace of fukurodani academy simply ceases to have a spine, slumping forward until his forehead is resting against your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck as he lets out a long, shuddering whine of pure contentment.
“if you stop doing that, i will actually pass away,” he informs the fabric of your sweater, his hands coming up to gently, reverently cover your thighs, his palms huge and incredibly warm. “they’ll have to bury me right here. under the desk. they’ll write ‘he died because his partner stopped touching his hair’ on the stone.”
“that’s a very long sentence for a tombstone,” you murmur, your eyes tracking the slow, hypnotic movement of your own fingers through his hair.
“i’ll pay extra for the big stone,” he mumbles, his fingers twitching against your legs as he tries to match the rhythm of your hair-twirling with small, rhythmic squeezes of his own. “anything for you. everything for you. you want the moon? i’ll jump really high. i can almost reach it on a good day. if i get a good approach, i’ll grab it for you.”
the mental image of bokuto kōtarō soaring into the stratosphere to punch the moon out of orbit just to bring it to your desk is so vividly ridiculous that you let out another genuine, loud laugh.
he reacts like he’s just won the national championship, instantly lifting his head, his eyes blazing with a triumphant, blinding light. before your brain can register the sudden shift in gravity, he’s shifting his weight, his massive arms scooping under your thighs and lifting you entirely out of the chair as if you weigh nothing more than a volleyball.
you let out a startled gasp as he sits back onto the floor, pulling you securely into his lap so you’re facing him, your legs draped over his hips. the textbook is completely forgotten now, left open on the desk to face the wall by itself.
“much better,” bokuto beams, his face inches from yours, his grin so wide it looks like it hurts. “now you don’t have to look at the boring book. you can just look at me. i’m much more interesting than inflation. look at my face. see? premium content.”
you can’t even argue. you just lean forward, resting your forehead against his, your fingers instantly finding his collarbone to resume their comforting, distracted tapping. one, two, three. one, two, three.
bokuto closes his eyes, a soft, incredibly tender smile replacing his wild grin as he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you so close that you can hear the steady, heavy thudding of his heart beneath your fingertips. it’s fast, matching the exact speed of your restless hands, perfectly in sync with every single twitch and turn of your beautiful, chaotic mind.
